Dreams of literary heaven

Last night I dreamed I was on holiday with two friends, and we'd stopped at a small hotel to stay overnight.

We went upstairs and found one room was on the first floor, and one room was on the second floor (there were 8 rooms total in the place, four on each floor). We'd decided the couple would stay on the first floor room as it was larger, and I would stay on the top floor. All of us were checking out the first floor room, when we saw there was a small balcony with a tiny spa bath on it outside (only room for two). My friends decided to have a spa, so I wandered back in and saw a largish bookcase spanning the wall of one corner. I walked closer out of curiosity, and was stopped dead in my tracks.

It was the most amazing book collection I had ever seen. All my favourite type of children's and teenagers fantasy books, beautifully bound and covered (some in gold and silver binding, many bound in the style of the first, second, and third edition Famous Five book collection I have), most of which I hadn't yet read!! It took my breath away, and I was rooted to the spot in disbelief, and also despair, because I knew we were only staying one night so I didn't have time to read the books, and I  couldn't take them with me. I had only one book on me at the time, so I figured I could only take one book in good conscience and leave behind my book in return (which I hadn't read yet, but when confronted with this miracle, it hardly seemed to matter).

I started at the top left hand corner, and went from book to book. Amazingly, they were perfectly alphabetized. I couldn't believe the owners of the hotel had put so much effort into a book collection within a guest room. I pulled each book out in turn, and read blurbs about pirates, adventures, boarding school mysteries, unknown worlds, amazing denizens, and strong willed protagonists of varying personalities. How could I possibly choose? Yet the process of going through the books was such an enjoyment in itself. I wished desperately that I could have several weeks holiday staying in this one hotel, in this very hotel room, alone, so I could peruse and read the books at my leisure from start to finish. But it was not to be. With both joy and longing I was so embroiled in literary heaven that at first I didn't notice anything amiss. Then, just as I was nearing the "S" section (it wasn't a huge collection, but it was a highly specialized and top standard one), I realized my friends were arguing in the background.

I felt I should leave, but I couldn't. To leave without completing going through this collection and never again have a chance to peruse it! The idea was devastating, heartbreaking, but at the same time I knew my friends wouldn't understand. To them it would be a dusty misused bookcase of old children's books in the corner, and nothing to spare a second glace at.

The argument was intensifying so I hurried (although I was so focused in on the books I couldn't make out the words being said). Still in the 'S' section I came to two especially interesting looking books - one bound in shining gold, and the other in silver (about pirate ships, family drama, and an unusually written protagonist - puts one in mind of Robin Hobb's Liveship Traders series). I decided to choose those two and leave.

Unfortunately things had come to a head. One of my friends came up to speak tome, and as I turned I saw they had been packing. They had broken up and didn't now know what to do or where they would both go (we could no longer all travel together). I offered to have one of them stay overnight with me in my room. I felt a great grief upon leaving the books behind me, although I knew I should feel more saddened about the ending of the relationship.


I woke with a start and realized it was 6:45am. I wanted so desperately to hold onto the memory of that wonderful bookcase, that dream of heaven, that I decided to write it all out somewhere - and that somewhere became my blog, since I can write whatever I want here - ha! So often my dreams and so vivid and intense, more so than my daily life. I often wish I could write them into novels themselves, but I know the minute details will slip away from me too quickly for this to ever be made possible. I feel this is such a loss of inspiration, but I don't know how to remedy matters. The longest dream story I have ever managed to write was several pages, and even then it was more of a plot outline than a descriptive piece of writing.